


And the monarch flapped its wings

by A soggy and nasty piece of bread (37h4n0l)



Category: B: The Beginning (Anime)
Genre: ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE DO NOT READ, Cuckolding, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Guilt, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, i feel so fucking dead inside, im so sorry for writing this, its not really your fave if you dont get them cucked, laicas guilt and also mINE AFTER WRITING THIS, possible blasphemy, tagging this was the worst moments of my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/A%20soggy%20and%20nasty%20piece%20of%20bread
Summary: He is omnipotent as long as you believe in him.[Usage of roofies for sex, psychological and supernatural mind control, badfic in general]





	And the monarch flapped its wings

**Author's Note:**

> I kept trying to correct this like "Oh, why do I still not like it?" and then I realized it's just heavy as fuck and I'm never going to be satisfied because previous fandom experiences make me fucking terrified of putting up a fic involving date rape drugs. So yeah I'd love to say it's the worst thing I've ever written but it's not. :'^)
> 
> This is so depressing and despair-inducing that I might just make either a wholesome followup or something where Gilbert suffers *thoroughly*.

Maybe God isn’t how we think he is. Maybe, if there is someone akin to that, we understand too little to even sensibly use a term to denote him. Maybe God isn’t a person at all, maybe it’s a set of rules that govern our lives that can be neatly put in code on a stone tablet. It’s more comfortable to think of him as a person out of pretentiousness, but proofs and likelihoods don’t even exist in this realm of debate.

 

It’s either God’s whims or a coincidence that he has to find himself in a situation as bothersome as the current one, a bit of rain showering down on him as he walks the streets. It’s light enough not to warrant running for shelter but it soaks clothing nonetheless. It makes the cobblestones slippery and Laica has to watch his steps, another tiring detail among many. He tries not to think about what he’s even doing here in the late evening with this kind of weather, but the thought returns periodically with every step he takes as he turns around the corner. Pretty, neoclassical houses tightly jammed together in the city center, and a sky of an ugly dark grey from the last remainders of diffuse lighting. He can’t tell whether it looks good to him or not, but the humidity makes the atmosphere awful for sure. All in all, it’s not the right evening to go outside and Laica is displeased with the fact that he has to. 

 

Goes like it always goes; he reaches Ramon Ports & Harbor, shows them the tattoo, they let him in. At least this is easy and he doesn’t have to go through a lot of hassle. There’s a stray military squad, a few eyes drawn to him briefly before quickly darting away from him, probably deducing who and what he is from his appearance. The road in the middle crosses what was originally a field; a bit of rancid dry grass is left of it now, various bases and buildings distributed sparsely. There’s one that stands apart from the rest, — Laica has to wonder how nobody ever found it suspicious, — a psychiatric institute that uncreatively bears the same name as the district. He’s been here several times, but it was never on a damp night like this one. 

 

He can’t decide whether he’s nervous or exhausted as he pushes down the door handle of a well-concealed underground laboratory, relieved to see a light turned on inside that reassures him he didn’t get the place wrong. It’s partly immersed in darkness this way as well, because there’s only a single illuminated spot in the reasonably large room, among the complicated medical equipment. Two people are present, one on an operating table and the other standing next to it. 

 

“Is it done?” Laica asks instantly, as his steps slow down and finally stop when he’s close enough.

 

Gilbert looks at him like he’s shaken up from a daydream, mouth curled up eerily with the single lamp casting shadows on his features. There’s something in his appearance that is familiar to Laica in a disturbing way by now, but it’s hard to pinpoint what it is — it’s as if, after seeing him so many times, instead of growing accustomed to him he’s gotten used to the sensation of discomfort associated. He prefers contacting him through phone calls because Gilbert’s facial features are instinctively upsetting: Laica is incredulous as to how he’s still managing to fool Canopus and the rest of them, how they can’t see the inhumanity. They wouldn’t trust him so much if they saw him in any setting such as this one, superficially languid next to the illuminated surface, a chilling display. 

 

His eyes wander to Minatsuki; he’s sprawled on the operating table and seems to be awake, or at least has his eyes open albeit fixed on the nothingness before him. He’s wearing nothing but something that looks like a towel tied around his waist; odd. There’s a leather bind on each of his arms, another on his torso and one on his neck. Laica immediately checks his left, notices that it’s intact and seems to have regenerated completely. It should be a relief, instead he concentrates on how it’s hard for him to even detect his breathing and that there’s something oddly calm about him, as if he’s a graceful still-life comparing to the other two. He connects the dots and figures out that Minatsuki had to have been sedated or something to that effect, which makes Laica suspicious. Gilbert wouldn’t bother with that for something minor — to reggies — like fixing an arm.

 

“Sorry, I wandered off” the doctor says out of the blue, perking up. 

 

“It was rather quick this time” Laica comments in return. 

 

Gilbert nods slowly once or twice before speaking again, “Right, though you might have to wait a little. I gave him Rohypnol.” He reaches for Minatsuki’s shoulder to pat it patronizingly.

 

Laica tenses up in bewilderment. Roofies seem wildly unnecessary, he wonders if it’s because Minatsuki fought too much, if he was unmanageable. Maybe he should’ve gone with him in the first place, the thought crosses his mind. The air stalls with weight. There’s a pair of blue eyes on him and it’s not the ones he would perhaps prefer, cold and almost glowing from the hollowness, the uncomfortable vibe of alienation they give off. 

 

It has to dawn on him — that there’s something wrong. That Gilbert is just standing there, smile unwavering, and no, he definitely doesn’t look like he’s planning to say his greetings and let them leave. His face is stuck in the expression and his hand is still on Minatsuki’s healed upper arm, right above the change in tone that delineates the lighter and softer new skin and the old one. If Laica squints a little, he can see his fingers moving, tracing the distinction like a job well done. Minatsuki seems numb enough to not be aware of the feeble contact, his eyes are hooded and directed to the ceiling above him; he wouldn’t need restraints, surely not the ones he has now, tight and not likely to be loosened soon.

 

“Are you impatient because it’s late?” Gilbert says, looking his visitor’s way, then. “I was planning to chat more.”

 

“About what?” Laica asks slowly, quietly.

 

“Ah, there’s plenty,” his hand finally moves in a tangible way, caressing the renewed arm in a way that makes the other’s pupils narrow, “we rarely meet up together like this. The three of us.”

 

“It will mess up the plans.”

 

Gilbert hardly pays that any mind. Instead, he moves on to Minatsuki’s chest where his front strands drape over a clavicle, sweeping them away like someone would with a doll or a small child, his gaze follows his own hand betraying something akin to morbid fascination. He’s at his most terrible when he looks this soft. Minatsuki’s head moves lazily as if he’s curious as to what will happen to him.

 

“I was thinking just when I was treating him—” the doctor mumbles, now more concentrated on his own endeavours of trailing down the relaxed muscles of his stomach. “I was thinking you have very good taste.”

 

He reaches a hipbone and Laica would tell him to stop if he were less composed and more panicky, to stop before that one piece of fabric is removed. 

 

“I noticed he does act reckless,” he talks about Minatsuki as if he isn’t even there, and horrifyingly, he might be so out of it that it’s not baseless, “but he was so docile when I sat him down to amputate his arm. Must have been worried about that injury. You should have seen him, he screamed like crazy but he tried his best not to struggle.”

 

It’s hard to tell anymore whether it’s Gilbert’s general way of speaking or there’s something oddly sexual about it. Laica considers that maybe there is, and that he’s giving him the benefit of the doubt because otherwise he’d feel too sick; his muscles are suddenly so tense he finds himself unable to sit back in the chair anymore and has to lean forward. It could be mistaken for curiosity, especially since he doesn’t do anything else afterwards. He looks at Gilbert, staying luckily imperscrutable because of the sunglasses, gets a stare back full of things he can’t interpret. It bores into Laica like a dagger.

 

“This is a good reggie you picked.”

 

Each of Gilbert’s words is heavy, like a judgement cast from above evaluating the tightening of his lips when Minatsuki is fully naked and shifts slightly for the first time in minutes. He doesn’t look into his eyes when Laica searches for them, he looks at Gilbert instead — passive and incapacitated, ready to be assessed, so contrary to his usual demeanor. There’s a hand on his thigh and it’s agonizingly slow like it wants to prolong the moment into infinity on purpose. Laica prays he’s not just imagining it when he sees him tense up, prays that something in the back of his mind is fighting because it’s easy to get frustrated at Minatsuki for being stubborn and rash but he’d take that a thousand, a billion times over this. But it’s still not enough for him to move, because Gilbert is God, and he does what he wants. He can move his hand lower, to Minatsuki’s ass if he wants. And Laica can’t do anything but watch it unfold and be subjected to the fate he’s being crafted.

 

“You’re planning to keep those on?” Gilbert pauses for a second to nod towards his shades. “It’s safe, he’s not conscious enough.”

 

It’s like a charm because Laica takes them off with a weak hand that can barely grasp the object, sticky underneath the gloves, even if he doesn’t want to. An instinctual act he immediately regrets because the clarity of the image makes his eyes go wide as soon as it registers. Gilbert is leaning down and pushing up one of Minatsuki’s knees for better access, his heel drags on the operating table with subtle pressure that could be either the last bit of voluntary resistance in him or simple rigidness. He looks at him like he acquired something precious whimsically, just to show that he can — to  _ show Laica _ that he can. And if Laica wanted to lie to himself, he’d repeat like a mantra that this is just Regulus’s test to see whether he really doesn’t care about the things he shouldn’t care about, to see how unaffected he actually is. That would imply God has a coherent way of acting and isn’t just enjoying taking one jab at him after another. It would imply Gilbert takes no pleasure in working a finger into Minatsuki and — instead of watching him — watching Laica watch him, every minute convulsion of his facial muscles. 

 

It’s a shame, because Minatsuki looks beautiful like that and fuck, could Gilbert at least appreciate what he’s robbing him of? The harsh lighting reflects on his hair in an unfittingly otherworldly way; he doesn’t move under the cold, formal palms, only breathes with more frequency, making a blonde lock slide off his shoulder slowly and his adam’s apple budge. The chair creaks under Laica despite him being perfectly still, like the tension emanates from him straight to his physical surroundings. He starts recognizing the feeling when Gilbert prods deeper into Minatsuki’s ass with his index, inquisitive in his own, revolting way — it’s rage, one that’s pooled up in him not only in the past hour but ever since he decided on his stupid act of being cool-headed. The same act that makes him unable to move by an inch now, perhaps. He got too lazy with apathy over time and now his fight-or-flight response is to freeze and feel pitiful because of it, fearful and caked in cold sweat.

 

Gilbert searches a little, unwilling to make the process any quicker. It’s not preparation, he wouldn’t care about that, he’s evidently just messing with Laica’s head. There’s a spot that makes Minatsuki arch his back and a faint noise escape him, a reaction still considerably toned down by the drugs, but it seems to entertain Gilbert how he can’t keep himself. If Laica could detach from the context, he’d find it delightful too. As the other withdraws his finger, he thinks about how his smile is devoid of any emotion that makes someone human, and yet it reflects a strange, peaceful glee; maybe that’s why it’s easy to see him as a superior power. Impossible to understand and a vice on people’s minds that squeezes and doesn’t let go until they’re drained of self-respect. When Gilbert unbuckles his belt with no haste, Laica hates the fact that he wants to look. ‘Want’ is maybe too simplistic — he doesn’t  _ want to _ but he feels like he  _ has to _ , or that he has no choice but to. The turquoise of his right eye is unperturbed as well, powers dormant as if there’s nothing to worry about.

 

There’s a moment when Gilbert feels closer; when he’s sat on the table sideways, stroking himself with hints of indulgence, breathing out his nostrils. Closer, not in a humanitarian sense, but relatable for sure because — the realization hits him — Laica would probably be doing the same, were he in his position. If Gilbert told him to fuck a roofied-up Minatsuki, he knows he’d do it, and the discomfort and self-loathing at the thought throws him off; because he should be neutral about this, he shouldn’t care about what happens to a reggie he’s simply using as a cover, he should be emotionally uninvested. Even worse, there’s a selfish and disgusting part of him that  _ hopes _ Gilbert offers when he positions himself above Minatsuki, and it gets stronger every millisecond.

 

“You,—” Laica almost,  _ almost _ manages to yell at him, but the words catch in his throat and all that comes out is suffocated mumbling. “What—” 

 

It’s as if Gilbert can’t decide whether to ignore him or not, because he does cast a condescending glance his way, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing his cock inside. Minatsuki gets the closest he can get to panting in his current state — a minimal heaving of his chest — as his long legs are being held apart, skin pale under the droplets of sweat rolling down his forehead. His face shifts, as much as the strap on his neck allows, while Gilbert sheathes himself to the hilt; Laica loses track of the sexual part as those eyes stagnate in his direction, bright blue and dull at the same time. The eyes of someone who has no idea what’s happening. It makes Laica slide more towards the edge of his seat and ball his hand in a fist, fingers digging into his own palm from pressure. Gilbert raises his brows at him, caressing up from Minatsuki’s thigh to his waist to grab ahold of it.

 

“Are you mad?” He sneers at Laica, but it sounds like the mockery of an all-powerful entity rather than pettiness. “Are you mad I took your plaything,  _ Minatsuki _ ?”

 

It’s surreal he can even say that aloud, something that would sound absurd coming from anyone else. Something Laica could potentially kill other people for, normally, if he wanted. Omnipotence is capable of dwarfing a silly concept like pride. Gilbert’s every word and action is absolute, the single experimental thrust of his hips, Minatsuki reacting to the intrusion with not much more than a muted whimper. The only relief Laica has, now panting himself, is knowing that Minatsuki wouldn’t be able to move or protest even if he wanted to, with all his upper body tied so tightly to the operating table. He can imagine he is opposed to it this way. He can etch in his mind the image of him he has more easily, of someone difficult and headstrong and lively, before it gets exorcised by Gilbert slamming into him again with a hoarse groan. Laica watches his cock bury in Minatsuki’s ass, still as if his neurons forgot how to fire. 

 

The worst thing is how good he looks anyway,  _ despite _ of all this, good enough that Laica’s eyes are glued to him as they trail his collarbones jutting out in rhythm with the movements. His hair is spread out underneath him, some strands sticking to his sweat-drenched face. The more handsome his features are to Laica, the more they make his guts twist, because he’s the one letting this happen, he’s not doing anything,  _ why isn’t he doing anything _ ? The mysterious force holding him in place is so strong he’s beyond finding a rational explanation for it, he simply  _ can’t move _ like his brain is in a block and it’s terrifying. It occurs to him that Minatsuki is hard and his body looks more shaken-up than before; he wants to hammer it into his mind that it’s the drugs making him blush and bringing tiny moans out of him. Because he can’t be enjoying it, that eventuality is a blow that Laica can’t take. Gilbert is unaffected by his inner dilemmas and fucks Minatsuki harder, so that his arms and chest unintentionally tug at the bonds, almost tearing them, and it would be so nice if they did. 

 

Yes, he  _ is _ mad, he states to himself just to answer the question, very much so. He’s mad because theoretically he could use his powers and skills against Gilbert, he could take Minatsuki away from here and then that tooth digging into a lower lip and his narrowed eyes would be all for Laica exclusively. Instead he feels like he’s the one tied up, unbearably tense on the chair to the point of trembling. There’s something about the way the crude light casts on Gilbert’s face as his thrusts become more rapid and harsh, the way the shadows dance around;  _ something _ that makes him unquestionable and powerful, a step ahead of everyone but especially Laica. It’s overwhelming and numbing. It’s mystical.

 

“I wonder,” he breathes between two rolls of hips, his expression is frantic and yet somehow collected, “is it a side-effect that he takes it so well? Or did you make him like this,  _ Minatsuki _ ?”

 

Laica didn’t think this would happen, but he hates how he’s the one being addressed with that name.

 

“Must be easy for you with that eye of yours,” Gilbert continues, interrupting himself with a grunt; meanwhile Minatsuki shuts his eyes and moans louder, so evidently it’s saddening, “you can do this anytime without substances. Screw with his head a little like usual.”

 

God isn’t merciful, otherwise he wouldn’t make it so clear that he’s joking. A while ago, when Minatsuki was in his right mind and not being subjected to something like this, Laica had told him that Regulus was too strong to take down. Maybe it was a nice way of saying he can’t go up against him and win, because Gilbert controls everything and he has long since learned that fate is powerful. Now there’s a tear of exertion dwelling up in Minatsuki’s eye as the back of his knees are gripped so firmly the skin goes red. Laica wishes he could at least see him from that angle, see the contracting muscles of his stomach, his cock dripping precum, the shine on his fair skin, his face pretty with hazy disorientation. But he also looks like a completely different person when he’s so half-conscious and compliant, and it’s blood-curdling. Gilbert is about to finish, he’s bucking frantically.

 

“...Stop now…” Laica blurts out but it’s still barely a whisper, and his attempt at sounding authoritative is laughable like that of a bossy child’s. 

 

“Is there something wrong?” Gilbert stops for a moment to turn his way. “Weren’t you the one who picked him up and exploited him in the first place?” He takes Minatsuki’s chin between two fingers in a sickeningly affectionate way, smug that it’ll strike a nerve for sure.

 

And as aware as he is that he’s being manipulated into guilt, Laica feels it anyway. He wanted to play God and learned from the man himself; now he’s being taught he’ll never be on his levels. So he looks on with resignation, in his hatred coupled with an inability to fight the thing he hates: he watches as Gilbert comes inside Minatsuki with a face not ecstatic from the pleasure itself but more from the power he has over both of them. Laica hates knowing he’s also a bit like that himself. 

 

The sight goes blurry before him, for a moment he questions his own sanity. He soon realizes it’s just the tears. In that moment, he gets sick of lying to everyone and himself, and becomes aware that he’s heartbroken because Minatsuki  _ is _ precious to him and he’s too fucking tired to figure out in what way but  _ he is _ , and Laica let something terrible,  _ awful _ happen to him by lack of willpower. Gilbert might be God but Laica still loathes him for this and that’s what gives him the strength — so dreadfully late — to snap and interrupt as his right eye twists and deforms. God goes rigid as his brain is taken over, falls from the operating table to the floor before his feet. The leather glove cracks next to his ear as Laica holds up his head to get the angle right so their gazes meet. 

 

He deletes and deletes and deletes. He deletes all of it in an uncontrollable fit, all the satisfaction Gilbert could have gotten from remembering this evening, a last effort to escape the weight of his own impotence which he knows he won’t. He could rearrange his mind even more, but there’s something that doesn’t let him — that he needs him for a plan and nothing else. It’s all pitiful, even like this, and it doesn’t help anything. It’s the clumsiest attempt at damage control but Laica is too furious and desperate. 

 

As he stands up the laboratory is oppressive around him, a floating smell of both sweat and disinfectant at the same time. It feels like he’s alone, being the only fully aware person in the room with Gilbert now motionless on the ground. No, fuck, having done that doesn’t feel any better, not as long as he, himself has memory of it — but he can’t purge his own experiences, otherwise it could happen again like the first time. Laica is breathing hard, unsure what to do, unsure what he  _ can _ do. It’s too late to do anything. 

 

The inscription looms above him faintly and he decides, then, that it’ll be the only thing he’s going to believe in, because Regulus’s title as a divinity has expired the moment he decided to get greedy with how many things he’s taken from him. The Jetblack’s promised one is the only world where he has a chance of defying everyone who’s wronged him like this, and that’s what he picks. He turns to Minatsuki, the epicenter of the commotion, half-asleep and so unusually fragile it makes Laica’s eyebrows knit. When he’s king, he tells himself. He’ll get rid of this obstacle and get retribution for tonight and more, for Koku and Jaula Blanca and everything else. It will all be fine then, he can remedy even the mistakes he’s made. It will be a better world.

 

Minatsuki wakes up in the back seat of the taxi cab hours later, drowsy and irritated. He’s back to being himself, thank god. Thank God. The real one this time. They’re at least half a city away from the hotel that serves as temporary headquarters these days, the driver doesn’t dare to ask anything. Before, Minatsuki was slacking on Laica’s shoulder who had pulled him in so he wouldn’t bump against the car, but the hand on his healed arm had been limp the whole time. It feels like he doesn’t deserve any of it, any of Minatsuki’s exhausted weight against him or his hair tangling into the sunglasses, which is why it’s such a relief when he opens his eyes. He makes a suspicious face, seeing the hospital pyjamas on himself.

 

“Christ, I feel awful.”

 

Laica draws back a little, because any closeness to him clutches at his very soul. 

 

“Did something happen?” Minatsuki faces him after observing the surroundings. “What are we doing here?”

 

The only response he gets is a vague gesture pointing at his left arm. He understands as soon as he sees it, opens and closes his palm tentatively a few times. There’s a bit of a satisfied smirk lingering on his face, even — the benevolence of anterograde amnesia. It’s terrible how oblivious he is; he’s always been though, if one thinks about it, unknowing as to what happens to him when he’s unaware. 

 

“Did I pass out from the pain?”

 

“You did” It shouldn’t feel like it’s his first time lying to Minatsuki. 

 

“I see,” the other curls his nose in response, “I hope we aren’t far. I’m having the worst hangover of my life.”

 

“No,” Laica says, looking out the car window, “we aren’t far. It won’t take long.”

 

When he’s king, he tells himself, the last residues of wetness in his eye well-hidden; when he’s king. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Monarch Butterfly became attached to Project MKULTRA as a symbol due to a conspiracy theory regarding a subproject of the same name, nevertheless it captures the essence of the goals. Monarch Butterflies perform a multigenerational migration which involves offspring being born with an ingrained, instinctual knowledge of which direction to travel in. This behaviour, being encouraged or prevented from doing certain things unawarely, is comparable to what they wanted to achieve with Manchurian Candidates; more generally Monarchs represent mind manipulation, especially on a subconscious level. 
> 
> (The fact that it also sounds like a reference to Koku is unintentional... But maybe I was meaning to make it, subconsciously...)


End file.
